Bad Losers and Sick Brothers
by PoppyJ
Summary: Dean could take any threat thrown at him. He'd heard all sorts in the past when he'd been accused of hustling. But never, ever had anyone threatened his brother outright. Dean 19, Sam 14. Sick Sam, worried/spooked/protective Dean.
1. Chapter 1

**This is just a really short two-shot that I found deep in the darkness of our hard-drive, and seeing as it's only seen the light of day for two hours I thought why not let it try out the internet? **

**Bear in mind it's a bit crap, but I always love a bit of protective Dean; I hope I'm portraying him well enough for you.**

**I'll try and update tomorrow if you're interested; let me know, :)**

**No melodrama, no drama, just mush and protective Dean.**

**Dean 19, Sam 14 going on 15. **

**Disclaimer: Own nothing, **

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Dean clapped his hands together as he threw his cards down, all smiles as he slid each one into its awaiting slot on "the River" layout of cards in front of him, revealing his second royal flush in the three hours he'd been playing. He'd been trapped in the same bar, a low layer of smoke shading the occupants, his table tucked into a secret corner, the lights dramatically dimmed, the low beat of rap music rumbling the floor, the customers talking in suspiciously low voices, firearms on tables and baggies on chairs all night, playing with a bunch of tough, streetwise and really quite scary men. Sure, two royal flushes in one game was probably pretty suspicious, and he could only hope these guys were drunk enough not to notice Dean's not o discreet moves, but he had no choice; Sam was still pretty sick, they'd officially run out of Tylenol and were low on just about everything else, including tissue paper needed for Sam's spontaneous nosebleeds, but more worryingly, money.

"And that, my wonderful new friends," he said, feigning a slur, staggering to a standing position as he collected his cash from the rickety bar table, "is how you cane a good game of poker."

The four other men gaped in shock, a swirl of rage mixed in as they numbly followed his movements as he collected healthy wads of their money. Dean couldn't resist but wink at the dealer, who gazed in horror as he watched the few hundred dollars he'd bet with the Winchester that he couldn't beat the so called "King of Poker" in a match, disappear from beneath his nose. "Well, I hope you all have a lovely evening; I gotta be on my way. Duty calls," he winked, silently congratulating himself as he pocketed the cash and made his way to the door. "Keep the deck, boys. For luck."

"Wait," argued the man opposite Dean, the oldest at the table but still no older than twenty – two, rested his hands on the wood as he ran through the game from his memory, eyes flickering across Dean's face-up cards on the table. Dean froze in his steps, grimacing as he turned. "Didn't Terry have the Queen of Hearts? Before he folded?" Shit. Apparently, this guy wasn't quite drunk enough for the eldest Winchester to work his magic.

The boy to his right shrugged, wincing slightly under the older man's gaze. He wasn't much older than Dean, and ten times smaller; but he sure could pack a good punch with a good doobie hanging from his lips.

"No, no you're right," said the dealer, more muscle than brain, watching Dean through narrowed eyes, "he did; and the eight of diamonds."

"Well, you're both clearly mistaken," settled Dean, taking a step closer to the door, to his freedom.

The fourth man, who was horrifically, hysterically drunk, cocked his head as he stared at Dean, washing up every detail. He turned to his friends, having clearly come to some sort of conclusion in his alcohol clouded head as he announced; "I think, Joey, we've been officially hustled." He raised his glass to his lips, cackling loudly as he enveloped the amber liquid with his scarred mouth.

"Boys, I am many, many things," said Dean quickly, desperate to contain composure as they all turned to glare at him – except for the drunk guy, who was still snorting into the tumbler, "but I'm cheat. I may be dirty to the law, but I'm an honest man."

The guy who'd sat opposite Dean, Joey apparently, shook his head, laughing coldly as he listened, lips still pursed as he stared at the cards. Those damn, telltale cards.

"So, Dean, if that's even your name, if I asked our trusty dealer here to search your pockets, he wouldn't find a deck just like this-" he gestured to the scattered cards in front of him "in one of 'em? Or if I was stupid enough go through the cards, just to make sure there was one of each, would I find two Queens of Hearts, and one card missing?"

_Shit. They figured it out._ Dean fought to keep his game face on, adding a raised eyebrow and a slacker stance as he tried to stay calm under Joey's scrutiny. Because the guy had nailed it right on the head; there was, in fact, a deck sitting snugly in his pocket, twinned to the one now spread wide across the table, missing the Queen of Hearts.

"Wait," said Terry, suddenly alert as the information seeped into his Grass-stained ears, "he's been swapping cards?"

"You're all drunk," reasoned Dean, suddenly sober him as the senses of danger soaked through his skin. The tension in the room suddenly strained, the few occupants of the bar turning to look.

"And you're a dirty cheat," hissed Joey, the chair scraping across the floorboards as he got up to his feet.

Dean shook his head, body tensing as he considered the impending danger. "I don't have time for this bullshit," he swaggered to the door, inwardly terrified he'd been caught, especially by guys like these, by guys from this area; the kind that would be as lethal and ceaseless as a shtriga when it came to it. He subconsciously shuddered as he remembered that night, guilt washing over him as he thought of his sick brother back in the motel. As a consequence to that… that nightmare, Sam had been prone to illness like it was addicted to him, and even though he hid it as much as he could to spare Dean the guilt Sam couldn't understand the reason he felt, Dean knew every time that _it was all because of him. _

He'd barely made it halfway across the almost deserted parking lot when the bar door swung shut behind him, quenching all the hope of a quick escape as he heard the damning voices behind him.

"Hey, dipshit!" yelled Joey, footsteps advancing menacingly towards him, "why you runnin' if you ain't got nothin' to hide, huh?"

Dean spun on his heel, eyes widening slightly as he stared up at the looming face above him, smelling the alcohol, the smoke.

"I ain't got nothin' to hide," said Dean carefully, gently patting the waistband of his jeans, sighing at the security of the cool metal pressing against his back.

"Give us our money back, jackass," warned the dealer, flanking Joey, with determined eyes to match his master's.

"You're all sore losers!" yelled Dean, taking a step back from Joey, preferring to show weakness take one more inhalation of the guy's rank breath.

"Damn it, Dean!" he yelled, frothing at the mouth as the humiliation of being cheated seethed out as anger, "don't make me do something I'll regret; you ain't such a bad kid. Just give it back."

Dean shook his head, watching the drunken guy and Stoner-Boy from the corner of his eye, both struggling to stay interested. "I have better things to do than waste my time with people who can't even lose a fucking poker game without having some tantrum that could beat a damn three year old. Now go inside your fucking bar and stop being such freakin' pussies!" he roared, relishing the stunned faces of his opponents before pacing to the sidewalk, keeping his ears pricked for any of them that decided to follow him.

Then those few words that changed the slightly elated feeling that kept a spring in Dean's step and a smile on his face into one of set anger, of undiluted hatred, and worst of all, fear.

"I wonder what little Sammy would say about that," snarled Joey, eyes lighting as he watched Dean tense, fists clenched as he turned to face him, "oh Dean, you didn't think you were the only one who watches their poker opponents, did you? We've seen the pair of you, sitting in that Chevy across the road, watching when we're here, who's with us… in there as well, in the bar. Last time we saw Sammy in there he wasn't looking so good, huh? Little warm wasn't he? Makes sense really; it was pretty obvious it was flu when he walked home from school the other day."

Dean almost choked on his own breath. Deep down he knew they were empty words, threats well practiced on other outsiders these types of people came across. He'd expected them to threaten him. But his _brother?_ Surely this guy wasn't serious… that was low. Yeah, he was right; he _had_ been watching them for a couple of days, making sure he knew what time they'd be drunk enough so he could join them to play a few rounds and rake in the cash he so desperately needed. He felt it a necessity to _know_ his opponents; poker wasn't his usually gig, and besides, pool was getting much harder to hustle now he'd been hustled a couple of times himself. But he should have known something as basic as swapping cards wouldn't have worked with guys like these, but he needed the money.

He could have done without it if it meant these guys wouldn't bring Sam into it.

He slurred over words, more from the fear for his brother than the alcohol in his blood. "Don't you talk about him," he said weakly, flinching at Joey's wry smile.

"You better watch his back, Dean. 'Cos we will be. We'll be watching every one God damn move he makes."

"I said, shut up," said Dean, voice raised as his expression became animalistic, feral almost, a wildcat protecting his cub.

Joey couldn't resist pecking at the kid; sure, he'd seen them around, but he'd never seen him outside the bar. It had been pure luck that led to him even knowing Dean's kid brother's _name._ But he'd been well and truly hustled, and wasn't taking it lightly. The amount he'd lost didn't make a dent in the amount he'd win on a nightly basis, but hell; he'd missed freaking card swapping, for Christ's sake!

"You'll have to explain to mommy and daddy why little Sam came home with a broken arm, or a bloody face. Or why he got knocked over by a car or why he didn't come home at _all…"_

Dean let out what could only be described as a growl, pouncing at Joey with a rabid look in his eye, only the dealer there to stop him from launching a right hook across the bastard's jaw.

"I swear to God, if you go near him… If you even look at him, I'll make you wish you were dead," he spat, hands curling into claws as he longed for the chance to rip out the eyes of the smarmy jackass in front of him.

"It would take nothing for me to call someone, have them sent over to where you're staying… You'd have a bit of a mess to clean up when you get back, or, y'know the fifty dollar charge for damage costs," he smiled dryly, eyes searching for the fear in Dean's face. _So, I've really hit a nerve here. _

Dean took a step back, sight now bathed in a pool of blood-red as he glared at the guy in front of him, separated by only the dealer who right now looked about as threatening as a housecat, as the words he'd spoken were burned into his memory.

_He'd watched them… he'd seen Sam. He'd watched Sam. He was a threat to his brother. _

Lost for words, and suddenly yearning for revenge, for the promise this guy wouldn't come looking for them, for Sam, he pulled the gun from his waistband, and in seconds had the safety off and the barrel firmly pointed at Joey's forehead.

The guy's expression one went from one of triumphant cockiness to pure, unedited fear. "Easy, easy," he coaxed, raising his hands in surrender as he watched the boy in front of him.

Dean spoke through tears of rage, aware of the monster he'd become to protect his brother, and not regretting one part of it. "You stay away from my brother, y'hear me?"

"Dude, calm down," said the dealer, backing off to hide behind Joey.

"If you got a problem, you face me. Don't you dare turn any of this on Sam," he whispered, all common sense and reason having been tossed from the window of his mind as instinct took over; these guys could be dangerous, and needed to be put into place. Anger fuelled his thinking, bubbling over any practical action he may have planned on taking, the mantra of _Look out for Sammy_ controlling him.

"Alright, ok, I'm sorry," mumbled Joey, crouching slightly as he tried to seem as unthreatening as possible. Sure, it had been fun teasing this guy, but from the wild look in his venomous, green eyes he knew he'd picked the wrong subject to pick on.

Dean lowered the gun, giving one last warning, daunting glare to each man before shoving the pistol back into his waistband, eyes flickering over the area for witnesses before heading into the shadows of Detroit's buildings.

He shuddered as the adrenaline seeped back out of his system, suddenly exhausted. He paused as he heard Joey's final words echo across the vicinity, another daring, risky warning.

"Hey Dean, remember you ain't the only ass in Detroit that's got a gun; you and Sammy better watch out." Of course he was lying. He would forget this in the morning; he'd go back to the shitty bar and drink the night away, the need for soberness now vanished along with the poker match.

Dean could take any threat thrown at him. He'd heard all sorts in the past when he'd been accused of hustling, from being murdered in his bed, to the breaks in his car being torn out, to being torn limb from limb in some dirty, rat-infested alleyway as he walked home.

But never, _never_ had any drunken gang member, or intoxicated, angry O.A.P threatened his brother outright. And it spooked the hell out of him.

As he sunk to his knees in the lifeless alley, the echoes of Joey's words ringing in his head, each one pinning his brain as if it was a pincushion, he pulled out his cell, dialing the familiar motel number as he sought reassurance that his brother was okay, was safe from these crazy sons of bitches.

Seven rings later, and no answer.

_It would take nothing for me to call someone, have them sent over to where you're staying. _

Heart in his throat, he glanced around before jumping to his feet, eyes searching the eerie shadows cast by the jumbles of buildings packed tightly together, before setting off through Detroit's backstreet jungle, with only one thought in his head.

_Sam. Sam. Sam. _

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

**Hoping that wasn't too painful to read; I finished this off at about 2am after a really horrible shift, so the ending is probably a bit awful. If it's too confusing, let me know and I'll edit it . Remember I've promised no melodrama, and I think the most dramatic moment that's going to be in this was his little show with the gun; I know it's unlikely he would have pulled a pistol out in public, but for Sam? I think he'd do anything, :') muchos love. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello, as promised, here's the second chapter, and consequently the last, updated on time for a change, :')**

**Disclaimer: Own nothing, but if I did Castiel would be making a swift return and they'd be driving the bloody Impala again. But I don't, so dead angels and rust buckets it is.**

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Dean burst through the motel door, gun drawn, eyes quickly sweeping the dark, orange-tinged room, bathed in only the street lamps that shone in from behind and a sliver of light streaming from the cracks in the bathroom door. His heart jolted as he noticed the tangled bed sheets on the floor, dangling from the bed like a frozen waterfall, swaying in the breeze let in by the open window. Searching the fitted sheets for the curled figure of his brother, his breath hitched when he found nothing.

"Sammy," he hissed, eyes wildly checking beneath the table, scanning the couch, doubling back to the bathroom. Flicking on the light as his darkened search came to no avail; he gagged as he glanced at the floor.

A thin trail of fresh, sickeningly red blood, leading to the bathroom.

_It would take nothing for me to call someone, have them sent over to where you're staying. _

He stepped further into the room, nostrils flaring as his gaze fell again onto the bed; there, on the pillow, a blossomed patch of red fabric.

He swung the door shut quietly behind him, tiptoeing to the bathroom, heart beating like a drum as every possible event that could have happened during his absence flickered through his mind before he instinctively rapped his knuckles on the crackling paint, tempted to right-hook himself as he withdrew his hand, cursing his own stupidity. If there was someone else in there with Sam…

"Sam?" he asked gently upon hearing no reply, no shift in sound, no movement in the shadows that dappled the thin bar of light emitting from the crack at the base. He gently pushed it open, a shiver running through his skin as his nails scraped down the paint – _man, he hated that feeling –_ almost collapsing as he saw the still, but breathing, figure of his little brother kneeling by the toilet, his back to Dean, torso leaning in the bath as his feet gripped the slippery tiles on the ground. "Sam!"

Sam shifted his position to turn his head slightly, glancing at his brother before sighing in relief. "Occupado," he said weakly, head sagging as his shoulders shrugged further into the tub, now only grounded by the tips of his toes balancing on the floor.

Dean strode to his side, kneeling next to him as he placed a palm on his forehead to stop him colliding with the ceramic, frowning as he felt the heat radiating from the kid's pale, limp body.

"What happened?" he demanded, one hand splayed on Sam's back as he tried to kneel again, stopping him from collapsing backwards to the ground, "you hurt? Who did this?"

Sam's eyes drooped as he analyzed Dean's questions, face contorting in confusion as they sunk in.

"Wha- Dean, it's just a nosebleed, I've been getting them all week," he explained, sighing as his head was gently pushed to lean over the tub again, the streams of blood landing in the pool of blood already coursing down the plughole with a sickening _drip. _

Dean breathed again as he watched the red, thin liquid drip from Sam's nose, relieved this hadn't been his doing. He grabbed a fresh towel from the rail with one hand as the other stayed supporting his brother's head, before reaching to Sam's nose and holding the towel out for him to squeeze on the bridge of his nose. He gestured for the kid to grip the edge of the tub as Dean left him for a second, standing to turn on the cold water in the sink and soak a washcloth, wringing the fabric before placing it gently on the back of the his brother's neck. He smiled as Sam reached blindly from him, resorting to the childhood mantra of clinging to his older brother in times of sickness.

"Cool it, I'm here kiddo… I would've been earlier if you'd told me you got like this. Why didn't you call?" he asked softly, trying to keep his voice as soft as possible as he knelt back next to Sam, who gripped Dean's arm as a searing shot of pain ran through his stomach, punishing him for trying to move to face his brother. "Easy there."

"You said not too," he gasped, swinging to sit against Dean's chest as his brother's legs were spread either side of him. He held the towel to his face with one hand, the other gripping Dean's calf as a second searing shot of pain coursed his stomach.

"I said to call in an emergency, and I would say this is pretty damn close," Dean corrected, grabbing the slipping cloth from falling down Sam's heated back and dunking it under the running water.

"It's a nosebleed," he sighed as the cool cloth was placed on his forehead.

"It's a bad nosebleed. Did you throw up?"

"Once."

"Sammy," warned Dean, lifting the towel from his brother's face to check the blood flow. He grimaced at Sam's clammy, bloody face before folding the towel and handing it back to Sam to press against his nose.

"Twice," he admitted, voice muffling through the fabric.

"Twice as in two times you had to spend in here? Or twice as in you spewed up your stomach twice?"

"Dean…" Sam moaned, curling his legs to his chest as he suppressed the sick feeling in his stomach.

"I gotta know, Sam. I'm guessing they were dry, too," he guessed, remembering his brother clutching at his chest as his insides cramped not two minutes ago.

"Two bouts. But short," he assured, pulling the towel from his face and dumping it on the ground.

"Well, that's better than yesterday. You may not feel it, but you're getting better. Stopped bleeding?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good. You gonna throw up?"

Sam tested his gag reflex by swallowing, waiting a few seconds before answering. "I'm good."

"Ok. Move your skinny ass a minute then, and get out of your shirt."

Sam shuffled awkwardly, groaning as he had to flick the bloodied towel a few feet to give him room to move. Dean, knowing Sam's ability to cope with the sight – and smell – of blood was significantly worse when he was sick had sense to grab it from the ground and discarding of it behind the door, smiling at Sam's weak "thank you".

"Okay, little brother, let's get you cleaned up and back to bed. Shirt off," he said again, stifling a laugh as Sam struggled to pull the damp fabric from his head, remembering Sam as a toddler wrestling similarly with his clothes before bathtime. Surrendering, he walked over to him, tugging it off the kid before grabbing him by his arms as he sagged dangerously close the toilet lid.

"Man, you're pretty tired, huh? Guess it ain't so nice havin' one of your random ass nosebleeds at a time like this," he mumbled, pleased at the knowledge the kid was probably exhausted enough to probably get at least some sleep tonight. He leaned Sam against the tub as he handed him a clean, damp towel to wipe of the crusted blood from his body, face and hands, darting into the room to grab his own duffle and extracting a faded Def Leppard shirt. He shuffled over to Sam, whose head was now lolling forward as he fought to stay awake, and pulled the towel from his hand, tossing it into the bloodied bath before slipping the too-big shirt over his brother's head.

"Dean, you stayin' in now?' he mumbled, squinting up at Dean through crusty eyes.

"Sure am, kiddo. You good to stand?" he asked, grabbing Sam's arms when he nodded.

He pulled him into a standing position, more carrying him than supporting him as the kid's tired legs buckled beneath him. They froze for a second, Sam's face contorting as he sucked in a breath.

"Dean," he said hoarsely, and the older Winchester, who recognized the 'I'm gonna to hurl' voice that hadn't changed in all these years, quickly placed him in front of the toilet bowl, rubbing circles into his tense back muscles as Sam's body convulsed, his body wracking as he spat strings of bile into the water.

"It's okay, Sammy," he whispered, grabbing his brother's hand as it searched wildly for his comfort, placing it back onto the toilet seat to help him balance. He wiped Sam's mouth with his wrist, rubbing the mess onto his own flannel shirt before replacing his hand onto the kid's forehead. "I'm here. I'm right here."

Minutes passed before Sam's muscles finally relaxed, falling back into Dean's arms as he breathed heavily. "Sorry," he mumbled, eyes drooping shut again as he swallowed, leaning heavily into his brother's chest. Dean smiled affectionately, always surprised by how the simple gestures filled him with importance. He cupped one hand under the running water, allowing it to fill before raising it to Sam's lips, raising him to spit it into the toilet bowl and pulling him back again, the damp hand resting on the kid's sternum.

"Don't be, little brother. So, no more sudden movements, huh?" he said lightly, gently pulling him up to his feet, awaiting his reaction before leading him back across the room, following the trail of dark blood splattering the carpet. "You good to bunk with me?" Dean nodded with Sam, expecting the answer. Sickness, fear, nosebleeds or injury always resulted into the younger brother clinging shamelessly to his sibling, and Dean was glad of it; he always felt guilt creep into him when he saw his brother suffering, as if everything that happened to him rooted somehow to Dean screwing up somewhere along the line, and having him close could stop it happening again.

He slipped Sam under the covers of the bed closest to the door, hoping that the wall he was laying against would provide some sort of protection to anything that may come bursting through the door…

_Joey._

He tensed as he remembered his angry face, his snarling words…

And Sam didn't miss it. "Dean?" he whispered, searching the older sibling's face for the distress that outlined his movements.

"Huh?" he mumbled eyes wide as he fell into his memories.

"Dean, what's wrong?" he asked, pulling his arm from Dean's grip as he tried to face him.

"Hey, hey, stop it, you'll throw up again," said Dean, snapping from his trip down nightmare lane as Sam wriggled beneath him, "a couple of pills, some special Sick Sammy Cocktail then you can pass out, okay buddy?"

He ignored Sam's worried gaze as he headed to the kitchenette, stealing worried glances out of the window as he watched for any predator, supernatural or otherwise.

Opening the fridge, he pulled out the green bottle of lemonade, glad he'd reminded himself to open it to kill the bubbles in it, and poured some into a glass. He dunked a teaspoon of sugar on top, stirring it gently before carefully selecting a suitable antibiotic for Sam to use now they'd run out of Tylenol. He emptied a capsule into the glass, knowing the kid was in no condition to be swallowing anything solid.

He walked back to the bed, sitting next to his brother as he handed Sam the glass. "Drink it all, it's got some drugs in it. I just gotta sort out the bathroom and I'll be back in a sec'."

Sam nodded, watching Dean pace around the motel room, listening to him wash the red stains from the bathroom. As promised, he was done in minutes, and returned to a drooping little brother, resting uncomfortably against the headboard, empty glass in hand. He turned back to the front door, locking it securely and, just in case, pushing the wooden coffee table against it as a second barrier. He extended the salt line around the table and checked the others, frowning as he closed the only open window. Obviously Sam's doing, but he couldn't help but worry, couldn't help the 'what if's stream through his imagination. He picked up the trashcan and placed it next to the bed, just in case any unexpected bouts of sickness visited during the night.

"Dean," came a small voice from across the room, "m'hot."

"I know, buddy. But hey, fever's down. Not long 'til your all better and back hunting," he smiled.

He checked the room once more for anything out of place, and grabbing his gun from the pile of clothes in the bathroom, headed to bed, covering the bloody sheets on Sam's bed with a cluster of towels. He clambered into bed next to his brother, smiling as Sam automatically rolled over to curl up next to him, one hand across his waist, warming him instantly with his fever ridden body.

Minutes of silence passed, broken only by the rumble of the ancient air conditioning hub, the tick of Dean's watch, the odd tickled cough from Sam.

"What happened tonight?" Sam mumbled, looking up as Dean tensed once again, his body rigid under his hand. "Dean?"

"Nothing happened," he replied stiffly, snaking his hand around his brother, patting his back reassuringly.

Sam moved to sit up, sighing as he was pushed down again. "I know you're lying to me. Come on, Dean. I won't tell Dad."

He hesitated, trying to resist Sam's kicked puppy look. "I hustled poker."

The youngest Winchester sniggered, resulting in a weak cough – damn, was he ever gonna get better? – as he heard Dean's excuse. "Conscience finally catching up with ya'?"

"Shut up," Dean said, grinning at his brother.

"I know something's up; the coffee table, you thinking I'd been hurt. Come on, Dean, I won't tell Dad, promise."

Dean laughed darkly. "It's not Dad I'm worried about."

Sam looked up, surprised at the remark. "I'll never, never think bad of you, Dean. There's always a reason for the stupid stuff you do." He looked up expectantly.

Dean hesitated again. "I…I pulled a gun on someone."

Silence.

"You didn't…" whispered Sam, loosening his grip slightly on his brother's shirt.

"No, I didn't shoot him… Sam, you know I'd never kill a _person…_ He caught me hustling. I was swapping cards- yeah, yeah, I know," he muttered as Sam raised his eyebrows, "I thought they'd be drunk enough not to notice."

"That big one looked pretty hawk-eyed," remarked Sam, remembering him from the many trips they'd taken to analyze the men's everyday schedules.

"Sammy… they said they were gonna hurt…"

"They all say that."

"No… they said they were gonna come after you. They said they were gonna hurt you, Sam. They said they were gonna _kill _you."

Sam swallowed, fear wallowing his features for a minute until Dean squeezed him again. "Dean, you know they all bullshit about that kind of thing. They're trying to scare you. You can't just pull a gun on someone…"

"But they threatened you, Sam, not me-"

"That's not-"

"I know you don't like it, Sammy. But it's my job to keep you safe, and that's what I had to do tonight. As long as I'm around, no one touches you. I'm here to protect you, and I swear to God that's what I'll do until the day I die. Got it?"

Sam nodded, too tired to retaliate, and in all honesty, pretty damn scared. He'd never been threatened by these types of guys before, and the thought…

He must have given off some kind of sign of distress, as Dean leaned down and kissed the top of his head, pulling the blankets tightly around them before checking his fever one more time.

"Stomach good?"

"Cocktail magic."

"Head?"

"Cocktail magic."

"Nose?'

"Bled out." He yawned tiredly, snuggling into Dean's side, as sleep overcame him.

Dean smiled, rubbing Sam's arm, glad this bout of sickness was almost over. "You're always safe with me, Sammy."

To his surprise, he heard a tiny "I know" drift up from his chest, and he could only smile.

He leaned back on the headboard, sighing as he picked up his gun and took up position to watch the door all night, fulfilling his duty no matter what to protect his brother. Even though he knew those guys were all words, he couldn't help but feel a little spooked.

Shivering as he remembered their words, he tightened his grip on the handle, narrowing his eyes as he watched the entrance, knowing it was going to be a long night.

Sam shifted in his sleep, and Dean looked down at him, affection flooding through him as he realized his brother was worth all of this.

As long as Sam was safe, Dean was happy.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

**definitely not my best, but it was good fun to write; can be easily edited if you think any drastic changes should be made. Hope you all enjoyed! Muchos love**


End file.
